


an old friend

by DeconstructedIronhide (InsertCoolName)



Series: fires of Simfur (Ironhide/Igneous) [2]
Category: Transformers (Bay Movies)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence, Original Character(s), Past Relationship(s), Post-Transformers: Age of Extinction (2014), Post-Transformers: Dark of the Moon (2011), Weapons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 10:00:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14494506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsertCoolName/pseuds/DeconstructedIronhide
Summary: How had one of Ironhide’s weapons ended up all the way outhere?





	an old friend

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta read. OC Igneous belongs to me. Feel free to hit me up @x-de-con-struct-ed-x if you want to know more about them!

The last job had been a particularly _messy_ one, much to Igneous’ displeasure. Three rogue Decepticons lead by a deluded Autobot who thought tangling with the balance of things was a _good idea_ –none of them would’ve lasted three weeks out there.

The obvious choice had been to snuff them out. A mercy killing, if you prefer, although Igneous has never been a merciful mecha, not even in their days as the High Priest of Solus Prime. Why change that now?

It had gotten _messy_.

Igneous is _very_ much ready to get back to the _Votum_ and take a long wash before setting off for Phalanx-II. They have the goods their employer wanted, and have taken care of the mess they left; time to treat themselves a little.

They smirk a little as they bring their haul in. Weapons are such _ridiculous_ things to fight over, in Igneous’ opinion. When you come from a city that was well-known for its crafters, some of the best on Cybertron, a lot of things about the war sounds ridiculous. But war is war, and Igneous did his part, even as a neutral.

Someone has to speak for Primus, after all.

The mecha begins to store the weapons, barely sparing a glance at each individual item as they slot them away. The less they know about their cargo, the better for them. This is just another job, and even if–

–oh. _Oh, my._

Igneous freezes. They’d recognize that signature sigil anywhere. They had helped _come_ _up_ with it, or at least the original version of it.

Yellow optics low, Igneous slowly traces the rough slash marks of old script, scratched over a stamp of half the Autobot symbol, half the Forge of Solus Prime. The gun itself is as old, probably from the early start of the war, but is as immaculate as any of the weaponsmith’s work has ever been, and Igneous has been shot at by it enough times today to know that it is still in perfect working condition. It’s almost completely muscle memory for Igneous to open it up and examine the ammunition inside.

They sneer. Bull rounds. Simple and effective, but _definitely_ _not deserving_ of being fired from such a masterpiece.

Closing the gun back up, Igneous hums. How had one of Ironhide’s weapons ended up all the way out _here_?

For a moment, Igneous can’t help the pang of loss and sorrow. They know he’s offline. Sources say it was rust. Others say a rogue Prime, which really sets Igneous’ anger alight. Primes killing their soldiers–

Igneous would’ve slain Optimus right then and there, for touching what is _rightfully_ _theirs_.

_Ironhide was mine._

Igneous narrows their optics, then finally shoves the gun away. They have a job to finish. Then, maybe, just maybe, they have an old friend to find.


End file.
